#53
"Finishing Touches"
by ant'ny

July 21, 1999

"That which doesn't kill you makes you stronger," Nietzsche said. If I don't die soon, I'm going to be the strongest man to ever walk the planet.

With six simple words, "Michael, I'm involved with another man," Jillian, the woman I love, the mother of our children, a monster I created in my own image because I couldn't bear to be without her, rips out my heart and—strengthening experience or no—makes me wish I was dead. Or that Colin had left me frozen in ice, instead of rescuing me.*

* Shame on you if you missed Bloodshot #52! Go back and read it now! I mean, it's only one issue.

I want to say something—anything—to make her change her mind. Part of my brain tells me that I'm still just confused from the "hibernation sickness," as we've taken to calling it, laughingly. The other part tells me that this is all—has to be a horrible dream.

If so, I hope I wake up any second now.

Instead of finding the magic words, all I can do is stammer, "What?" And then I stand there, like a mope, my mouth hanging open. Way to go, slick, I think to myself. I'm sure she's missed this a lot….

I stop, close my mouth, and try again. "Jillian," I begin calmly. It won't do any good to panic. "How could this happen? I thought we were in love." I wince as I realize what I've just done.

"Oh, Michael," she begins, still crying. "I did—do—love you. But it's been four years. You have to understand—"

"Not to me, it hasn't," I snap at her, the old "tough guy" role coming far too easily. "It's been a matter of weeks, is all." I pause as she lowers her head, crying even harder, unable to look me in the eye.

"Jillian," I whisper, telling myself that I shouldn't say what I'm about to say, that I'm only going to make matters worse. But then an angry part of my brain whispers seductively, How in the hell can things get any worse than this? and I continue. "How hard did you even search for me?" I wince on the inside, but my gaze remains steady.

Almost to quick for even my nanite-enhanced senses to detect, her hand lashes out, slapping my face, the sound echoing in the still room. "How dare you," she begins, her anger making her sound like she's still weeping. However, when I look into her eyes, they're dry. And it's here that I see the changes the last four years have wrought in Jillian. She's much more self-assured, a bit harder, than ever before. "I searched and searched for you. We used the most technologically advanced equipment that Daddy and General Cartwright could get there. I supervised as many of the hunts as I could. At one time I had frozen blood caked to my arms because, when we ran out of tools, I used my bare hands. I can’t believe—"

"Dammit, Michael," she says, the fury still in her voice, "this is hard enough already. You said you understood. You said—"

"I lied, Jillian," I snap back. "How in the hell could I understand? Even when you left me, I never screwed around on you. Never. We had children together."

"And they're dead, Michael!" she shouts at me. "Because of your damned nanites! Proteus came back to destroy nanotechnology and he killed our babies! Because of you!"

Dead. I didn't know. And I had though things couldn't get any worse. I deliberately hadn't followed up on the twins with Colin during my recuperation because I was afraid what he would say. And I had hoped that Jillian's being alive was in indicator of more good news.

It seems I was wrong.

It's apparent that Jillian is as stunned by my ignorance as I was by her revelation. Suddenly she takes me once again in her arms. I feel her hand on the back of my head and, for just a moment, I close my eyes and pretend that this has all been a bad dream and that she's comforting me.

"Oh, Michael," she moans, rocking me like a small child myself, "I thought you knew. I didn't mean those things, not really. I was angry and I said it out of spite. I was the one who took them there. I was the one Proteus lured up there to free him."

"Jillian, please don't blame yourself," I say, part of me marveling at what a hopeless soap opera this has turned into. "It wasn't your fault and it wasn't mine. It was the fault of whoever created Proteus and sent him back to our time. And I swear to God that if I live long enough…" Vendetta is an Italian word which means "a feud between two families that arises out of a slaying and is perpetuated by retaliatory acts of revenge." Regardless of what happens with Jillian, whoever killed my family will die at my hand.

"It’s just that it’s so horribly, so bloody, unfair," she wails and my heart goes out to her yet again.

"It’s been a hell of a four years," I say feebly, hoping to make her laugh, but only causing her to cry harder. Damn. Nothing I say is the right thing. I remember how it was before she got her nanites. I was the clumsy oaf, the junior high school kid all over again, tongue-tied around the beautiful angel she is. Simpler times and better days.

I carefully wipe a tear away from her face with the back of my hand. The nanites have been chattering away in my head for some time now. She corrected loved to love. Which means I might still have a chance.

"Well, it looks like we have a lot of catching up to do," I say, very gently. She gives a single bitter bark in lieu of laughter and I am encouraged. Of course this is hard on her. Here her world’s been turned upside-down and instead of supporting her, all I can do is try to make her hurt as much as I do. It’s something Bruno Mortalli—my father—would have done.

It’s what Angelo Mortalli would have done.

No! Mortalli is dead. I am not him and I don’t do the things he did!

There’s a long pause, but a comfortable one. She feels good in my arms, and she hasn’t tried to pull away.

Then I blow it all to hell again.

"Hey," I start, tipping her chin up so she’ll have to look me in the eye. "Tell me about this guy. He must be pretty special to win your heart." I grin so she’ll see that this doesn’t bother me, that I can discuss this turn of events rationally. "Anyone I know?"

Her face goes blank. I’ve said the wrong thing. Again.

"Oh, Michael, hasn’t there been enough damage done today already? I don’t want to talk about it any further."

"Jillian, I swear to you that—finally—this day can’t get any worse or any more surprising. And I promise to handle this like an adult, too. Who is he."

"You’ll find out soon enough," she says, her lips pursed tight, their natural fullness gone in her determination. "I am not going to tell you who he is right now. I think we should both sleep on it and perhaps tomorrow—"

"Jillian, I assure you: I can handle it. Unless it’s—"

Oh dear God. No. Please no.

"Jillian? It’s Goro isn't it?" Goro. The Crimson Dragon. The third and last nanite warrior still alive and kicking, a top secret experiment the only thing that's kept him alive. Jillian was a part of that same experiment. They both were infused with nanites, but neither of them can control machinery and electronics the way I can, thanks to my Harbinger ability. They have so much in common. And suddenly, it all makes sense. United by so many shared experiences, how could they not fall in love?

Good. I can control machines. And Goro is, for all practical purposes, a machine, which means I can control him.

Jillian actually laughs again. There's humor in this laugh. She's amused at my stupidity.

"Goro? Michael, I haven't even seen Goro since the three of us were together last.* I've heard tales about him—I still have my connections in the intelligence community—but, no, I'm not in love with Goro."

* Way back when in Bloodshot #45. Archivist ant'ny.

"Dammit, Jillian. If you don't tell me, it'll drive me crazy, not that I have very far to go. What's the name of this guy—"

"It's me, Lazarus."

I know that voice. It's one that I've heard many times in my life. Damn.

Abrams.

Real name, Gilad Anni-Padda, an immortal warrior.

My best friend.

I turn to face him and there he is, ever-unchanging, ever-vigilant.

"You?" I ask in disbelief. I'll have to have the nanites run a vocabulary building program tonight.

Always the consummate warrior, he keeps me between himself and Jillian, in an effort to divert my attention. Refusing to play by his rules, I back up until they're both in my sight.

Suddenly, I'm calmer that I've been since seeing Jillian. An icy coldness settles in, enabling me to do what I must, whatever that may be.

"The woman I love and my best friend. I have to tell you both, that I'm a bit disappointed."

"Michael," Jillian begins, "you have to believe me when I say—" She goes silent with a touch on her forearm from Abrams, and I fume at the familiarity expressed by that simple gesture. The imagined scenes of greater intimacy torment me, but the nanites once again work their magic, restoring my calm.

"No, no," I say, almost pleasantly, "let her talk. After all, we're all friends here, right? We shouldn't have an secrets from each other."

Abrams takes a step towards me, his steely determination intact as always.

"Lazarus," he starts matter-of-factly, "I am sorry.

"I have loved mortal women time and again, always with disastrous results. If my insane offspring weren't trying to kill me, I had to suffer watching another woman I loved grow older with each passing day, only to finally die. Have you ever lost one you loved? Do you know what that feels like?"

I swallow and then answer, "I'm beginning to. But I fail to see—"

"Please," he interrupts, holding up one gloved hand, "allow me to finish.

"I met Jillian long before you did. We worked together long before you became Bloodshot. And, even then, there was an unspoken attraction between the two of us. I never acted on it because I knew Jillian was one with whom I could fall in love, plus her father was my employer and it would have been unprofessional to get involved with her.

"Then you saved her life by giving her an infusion of your own nanites* and DeathAngel was born. The two of you fell in love, she became pregnant, giving birth to your twin sons, both of whom perished in your final battle with Proteus."

* It happened in Bloodshot #41.

"There's a lot of exposition here, Abrams," I answer. "Cut to the chase."

"After you were declared…missing in action…Jillian and I worked together. I was there when she was summoned to become a part of Peter Stanchek's Harbinger team. And we worked together searching for any evidence that you had survived the battle with Proteus. We became sparring partners, honing one another's abilities, when I realized that I had found my perfect match. Jillian had become a warrior whose abilities could rival my own. And she will conceivably live forever. And, although neither of us wanted it to happen, we fell in love."

It makes perfect sense. Part of the reason Abrams and I became such good friends is because we're both warriors, cut from the same cloth. We're too similar. And Jillian has the same combat files that I originally did. It makes perfect sense in my head, but not in my heart.

"And we also had the shared sorrow at your passing," Abrams concludes. It's not the touching finale I'm sure he expected it to be.

He takes another step towards me. I tense, watching for any telltale sign that he's about to attack, but he merely speaks again. "You know me as a man of honor, Lazarus. Just say the word and I will end my relationship with her. Believe me, had either of us known—"

"What?" Jillian practically shouts. "You'll 'end the relationship'? Don't I get a say in the matter? Gilad, I know you're from a different time, but this time you’ve gone too far with your chauvinism! Sod off, why don't you?"

And, with that, she begins to stalk out of the room. I barely have time to think, What in the hell just happened here? before I open my mouth. I barely get out her name when she turns on me.

"Don't you even think about trying to 'win' me now! I am not a prize to be won! I am not a trophy. Right now, you both make me sick and if I never see either of you again, it's fine by me. Just leave me alone!" and just as quickly as her tempered flared, she's gone.

It's too much for me to handle today. This has been, without a doubt the worst day of my life. I turn from the empty door frame, resigned to the fact that she won’t be returning any time soon and I glance at Abrams.

He's grinning.

"Well, old friend," he sighs, "one thing that will never change, no matter how old I get, is that I'll never understand women. Now, why don't we take a page from my brother Aram's book and I'll buy you a drink so we can work all of this out, okay?"

Jillian's right. He really is something. He's already turned his back to me and is following Jillian out the door, he's that confident that I'll want to be comforted by him.

I unsheathe my katana and, although the draw is actually the first cutting stroke he was able to hear the sound of the metal leaving the scabbard and reacted accordingly. My sword bounces off the metal spikes on his right hand. I didn't give Abrams enough credit: his centuries of combat have made him strong, swift, and more flexible than his appearance would indicate. Time and again, I lunge at him, only to watch my sword get deflected away. All I manage to do is put a few slashes in his jacket. He is constantly shifting, maneuvering in such a way that, between glancing off the spikes on his glove and the "Pez dispensers" on his arm, I never manage to cut him. A small smile plays at the corner of his mouth. Even though it's a matter of life and death with one of his closest friends, he is doing what he's always wanted, and he's enjoying himself tremendously.

His nonchalance makes me angrier. I hear the sound of my pulse in my ears and then my world gets washed out in white noise. It's almost a minute later before the nanites kick in and are able to work their effect on me, calming me down, using up the extra adrenaline in my system, that I'm able to hear him at all. "Lazarus! Bloodshot! Stop this! She's not worth it! And I'm not seeing her anymore! I said that I'm not going to—"

His sentence is interrupted by the report from my Desert Eagle. Before the echoes fade, he falls to the floor, his kneecap destroyed by my shot. And, even after that, he doesn't plead for mercy or beg forgiveness. Instead he rises, pulling himself upright on his good leg with a force of will that is amazing to behold, even with what I know about his healing abilities, which rival my own.

I honestly don't know what I would have done at that moment, when Colin takes the decision out of my hands. Summoned by the gunshot, he knocks the gun from my hand with a kusari fundo, a weighted chain that can be used effectively at a distance. That, coupled with his scream, "Lazarus, no!" helps me regain my sanity. I look first at Abrams, then at Colin. I have just shamed myself in front of the only two men I can—could—call "friend."

I replace my katana in its scabbard and return my handgun to its holster. "I'm sorry," I say in a quiet, subdued voice. "I don’t know what came over me. Colin, Abrams—Gil—I never meant for any of this to happen."

"I know," Abrams replies, and grins again until he inadvertently puts pressure on his ruined knee, which causes him to grimace. Instantly, Colin is beside him offering literal and figurative support. Neither of them looks me in the eye as Gilad is led to the infirmary. Then, just as he's about to leave, he grabs the door frame in one hand and says over his shoulder, "We never meant to hurt you, Lazarus. It's not like what Mortalli did to his finance." And then they're both gone.

Gina Canelli. Angelo Mortalli's fiance. At least, she was until he cheated on her. He was then sold out and sold to Project: Rising Spirit, for a procedure that created me, created Bloodshot.* And Abrams is right--Mortalli was deliberate and vindictive in his affairs. I was presumed dead and far out of the picture. I ponder that before realizing Abrams could have fought back, but he chose to only defend himself. He's too honorable to seduce someone a friend cares about. I have been a huge fool. In the Mafia, everyone seduced everyone else's wife, girlfriend, sister, whoever. It was yet another way of getting the edge on your enemy. Abrams has more integrity than that.

* Not familiar with Bloodshot #0? Go read it and all will be made clear.

I want to go after him, beg his and Jillian's forgiveness, but I don't. Instead, I wait several minutes until I know that they're well on their way and I make my way back to my room by a circuitous route that ensures I won't encounter anyone I know. I pack quickly and, after using my nanites to disable the security devices, plan to leave the complex undetected. The nearest highway is miles away, so it will be a long trip back, giving me plenty of time to process all that I have learned and done today.

As I walk towards the door, I can't help wishing yet again that Colin had left me frozen in the Arctic. My world has come crashing down around me. The day cannot get any worse. I'm reminded of yet another quote by Nietzsche: "Whoever fights monsters should see to it that he does not become a monster in the process."

And then, without warning, Solar appears in a kaleidoscopic burst of rainbow energy, holding out his hand to me.

"Bloodshot," he says, in a tone that lets me know a refusal of his request is unacceptable, "I need your help. The fate of the world depends upon it."

To be continued  immediately in Armageddon: 1999, Part 2 (I know, I know. A:1999 #2 was technically written first!). And then be sure to return here for Bloodshot #54 and the continuing adventures of the world's greatest nanite warrior with the hideous haircut! Bloodshot is truly alone now--he has no friends, lovers, or family left. Or does he? I couldn't tell you more without a SPOILER warning, so just come back for next issue, willya? I hope to see you then. ant'ny